Honour Redeemed by David Donachie Read Free Book Online

movement of reloading was repeated, but this time Rannoch threw his hat behind the bush, then droppeddown and rolled the other way, to the right of his tree, into the open. His third victim, who’d been waiting for him to appear, was showing no more than half his shoulder. But he moved out further, fatally, as he tried and failed to readjust his aim. His ball went way over Rannoch’s head. The shot the Highlander fired took off the Frenchman’s hat, and the top of his head with it.
    ‘Enough!’ Markham called, as Rannoch stood up again. But he didn’t reload this time. He shouted for the Hebes to stand by to fire, then stuck the barrel of his musket out to drag back his hat. The fusillade of shots that kicked up the earth close to the muzzle showed just how many of the enemy were poised, nervous fingers itching at triggers, eager for him to appear. Every gun that opposed them was aimed at his tree in anticipation of his next shot. But the reply didn’t come from there. As if to show they hadn’t entirely forgotten how to aim, the Hebes, judging by the number of human screams that rose above those of the shells, made the enemy pay from their concentration on Rannoch.
    ‘That was neatly done, Sergeant,’ said Markham.
    ‘It pays to learn from those you fight,’ the Highlander replied. ‘If you had ever seen service in the forests of North America, you would have seen a Jonathan do that in half the time. Not that officers were much given to education. They used to line us up on the roads in close order to return fire.’
    A slight grin had become evident on his square face as he said those last few words, though he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. The sergeant didn’t like officers, a fact which he made no attempt to hide from his own.
    Throughout Rannoch’s firing, Markham had been trying to imagine what was happening on the beach. If his impression was correct, then the French general had used his troops and artillery wisely. He could have employed them earlier, as soon as he’d seen the route of the landing. Instead, he’d held their fire until the main body of theattackers were committed, no doubt waiting till they actually began to land before letting fly with canister. The small deadly balls would scythe through the packed troops on the shoreline, while the infantry would make sure that any attack from the marines already up the beach was held in check. The whole landing was thus in jeopardy.
    It was his turn to adopt a grim smile, recalling the one adage that would cross all borders as far as soldiers were concerned. That was the simple axiom that you could never do wrong if you marched towards the sound of the guns. But Markham had his own maxims, the greatest of which was to create surprise; to do that which the enemy least expected. They were facing a French officer who knew the redcoats were in a position which was, by the minute, becoming less tenable. He would anticipate withdrawal. The last thing he would expect is to see the redcoats heading off in a new direction, on a mission every bit as suicidal as an assault on the dunes. What could twenty men achieve against the whole French defence?
    Markham knew it was madness. But he also knew it was necessary. Even if he could stop those field guns firing one or two salvos, and sacrificed everyone present to the task, he would be saving many more men on the beach. He was on the move quickly, taking advantage of the disorganisation that Rannoch had initiated and the Hebes completed, running across the face of the French, calling on his men to do likewise. Each move from tree to tree was accompanied by ragged, individual musket shots from an enemy that seemed, inexplicably, too shocked to react. That was a blessing which could not last. As soon as Markham thought them out of effective range he yelled for the party to form up more closely, using the sun, glinting through the trees above his head, to guide his course.
    The line of forest